


Snow Day

by neversaydie



Series: Like Real People [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Cat Dads, Food Issues, Genderqueer Character, Hipster Steve Rogers, M/M, Memory Loss, Non-Binary Bucky, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Pets, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snow, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Steve Rogers: Coffee Snob, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4922605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither he nor Steve can stand the cold these days, for obvious reasons, so the thermostat in their apartment is always turned up high without either of them having to admit weakness and ask for it. But this isn't their apartment. This is the stupid fucking vacation someone in his extensive 'treatment team' suggested, which they obviously had to take in the middle of winter. In the middle of fucking nowhere. So far away from civilisation, in fact, that apparently they don't know what central heating is. </p><p>Bucky's had worse, sure, but he doesn't have to have worse anymore. That's why he's so adamantly against it. </p><p>[in which Bucky has a bad day in the middle of nowhere, but there are fluffy sweaters and snow and coffee and asshole cats to pet, and Steve makes it easier to be a person.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> For beingoddish, thanks for all the support!

Showering helps the memories come back. Sometimes.

There's no fool-proof method when it comes to Bucky's fucked up brain, scarred (literally, the doctors tell him) by decades of electrical shocks that would have killed someone human, but sometimes showering helps. When he's got something itching at him like a half-healed scab, standing under the hottest water he can tolerate will often help shake the memory loose. It's something to do with feeling safe, his extremely irritating therapist theorises, that he associates heat and privacy with safety because it's the opposite of anything he experienced under HYDRA.

Feeling 'safe' (how the fuck does safe even feel? He hasn't worked that one out yet) sometimes makes the stuck memory slither to the top of his mind a little easier, worm its way up through the blank space where seventy years of Asset lives. 'Safety' only helps him when the memory is good, like when he remembered his mother's face and laughed until he cried because it was the first tangible proof he had for himself that he _was_ Bucky Barnes, but when the memory is bad…

 

_"You're fuckin' sick, Rumlow."_

_"Shut up, this is for science." There's a slur in the Commander's voice, and the Asset estimates his blood-alcohol content to have reached 0.09%. It would be illegal for him to drive in the United States, information the Asset knows from a mission it has already forgotten._

_The Commander holds up the beer bottle he's just finished drinking from and waves it in front of the Asset's face. The Asset doesn't move away from the glass like its instincts tell it to, merely tenses its muscles and gives the object the attention the Commander requires it to._

_"D'you know where I'm gonna put this?" The Commander leans close enough for the Asset to smell alcohol and tooth decay on his breath. The Asset doesn't flinch, doesn't move._

_It nods, blankly, which makes the rest of the team burst out laughing, because it knows exactly where the Commander is going to put the beer bottle._

_It's had worse._

 

…when the memory is bad, nothing feels 'safe'.

Bucky emerges from this particular one with a gasp, like he's been holding his breath or held under water. He braces himself against the shower wall as he shuts the water off hurriedly and fumbles for a towel, clumsy like he only gets when this shit happens. He suddenly wants very much to not be naked. Despite the temperature of the water he spent the last twenty minutes under, he feels freezing cold like he just came out of cryo.

And _that_ thought doesn't exactly help his current mental situation. Bucky lets himself disappear a little, just a little, to get himself to a different kind of 'safety'. He lets a tiny sliver of the Asset surface, enough for him to towel himself off and yank his layers of clean clothes on with ruthless precision and, most importantly, speed. Neither he nor Steve can stand the cold these days, for obvious reasons, so the thermostat in their apartment is always turned up high without either of them having to admit weakness and ask for it.

But this isn't their apartment. This is the stupid fucking _vacation_ someone in his extensive 'treatment team' suggested (and it sounds so clinical to call them that it almost gave him a panic attack the first time he heard it, before Steve explained that there were no cold exam tables and no shocks and no restraints and and), which they obviously _had_ to take in the middle of winter. In the middle of fucking nowhere. So far away from civilisation, in fact, that apparently they don't know what central heating is.

Bucky's had worse, sure, but he doesn't _have_ to have worse anymore. That's why he's so adamantly against it.

The Asset fades away the more Bucky lets himself bitch irritably in his head about the vacation, about Steve's choice of TV shows on the two shitty channels they get here (there isn't even wi-fi and he's going to murder someone if they don't get to a Starbucks or something soon), about anything trivial that's familiar and he doesn't feel violently about. Being irritated, _allowing_ himself to feel it and staying present in the idea that he's _allowed_ to feel angry without punishment, helps the Asset back into whatever glass cage Bucky's brain keeps it in. Once it's safely contained, Bucky takes a few deep breaths and checks in with himself (hands steady, heart rate slowing, breathing forcibly regular but returning to a natural rhythm) before attempting to look in the mirror.

It's easier now than it was back when he first came in from the cold, when he was skin and bones and bearded and _wild_ in a way Steve and his friends hadn't expected. Bucky (or whoever he'd been at that point) wasn't exactly feral, but he'd been more than a little fractured behind his blank eyes that tracked movement and assessed threats but nothing more. Now he's built most of his muscle back, earned enough trust to be allowed to shave himself, and remembered that the dead guy in the pictures was him, once, it's definitely easier to look at his reflection. He's not sure he looks like that-Bucky, not sure if he's ever going to, but he's starting to look like him-Bucky and that's all he's interested in right now.

In the beginning, Steve suggested almost weekly that Bucky should cut his hair. That was back when he was still clinging to the idea that he'd get 'his Bucky' back if they just broke though enough of the Asset's programming. It took a complete breakdown on Bucky's part, when the strain of acting the part of _James Buchanan Barnes_ became too much, for Steve to understand that _his_ Bucky wasn't coming back at all. There are shades of him in now-Bucky, and often the two are almost indistinguishable, but it's easier to be himself now Steve has stopped asking him stuff like when he's going to cut his hair. Especially because he has no intention of cutting it at all and it's getting past his shoulders now.

There's no blow-dryer here (of course, why would there be in the middle of _fucking nowhere_ Steve), so Bucky doesn't bother drying his hair before he pulls it back into a braid. The braid is French, he doesn't know why, but that's what Clint called it when he came across Bucky tugging on his hair to try and level his thoughts out ( _middle of the night, under surveillance, needtogetoutcantgetout_ ) and tied it back to stop him ripping it out completely. The hair elastics he'd received as a present from Sam back then (the first thing that was _just his_ and not Steve's first) had been black, utilitarian, masculine. They'd been fine, adequate, but as he's developed his own tastes Bucky has collected a rainbow of colours, including the glittery turquoise one he uses to secure his braid now. It's pretty, and he thinks he likes the way pretty feels.

The sweatshirt he favours when he's feeling cold and shitty and stuck in his head is equally pretty (a warm pink that could never be cold), that's part of the reason it comforts him so much. The Asset was ice, unfeeling, useful and _used_ , and that's all it was. No emotion, no preferences, nothing but point-shoot-kneel-open-obey-kill without a say in any of it. Now Bucky isn't the Asset, he's not going to let something like gender (he barely knows how to be a _person_ some days, what the fuck does he care about _gender_?) stop him from wearing the fluffiest, cosiest, most comforting baby-pink sweatshirt just because it doesn't fit some expectation. He likes frivolous things these days, partially because he's _allowed_ to like them. He can paint his nails and braid his hair and wear soft clothing if he wants to, so he does. Excessively, offensively, because he _can_. It's liberating, and any way Bucky can be _Bucky_ and not the Asset is just fine by him.

(Sam had asked him once if he wanted to use a different pronoun for himself. Bucky looked at him in confusion for a minute before tentatively asking if it was okay to not be called _it_. Clearly, that wasn't the answer Sam had been expecting. That was the last time they had that conversation.)

Steve had been momentarily (and really, _momentarily_ , Bucky was surprised after he'd been so resistant to the idea of now-Bucky versus then-Bucky, on top of the _ball_ of masculinity issues he foggily remembers Steve having) thrown by Bucky being more feminine in his appearance once he had a choice in things. But after coming to terms with now/then Bucky, it seemed easy in comparison for him to accept that nail polish was going to be a regular part of his life these days. Bucky makes him do the fiddly little designs that his flesh hand shakes too much to handle, with the fine-tipped nail pens Natasha gave him for what was apparently his birthday. She'd painted tiny spiders onto his nails and he'd breathed in the memory of little girls fighting and existing and being used just like he was. Natasha likes frivolous things too, it's the first thing they bonded over, and she taught Steve how to do the nail designs and the hairstyles Clint taught her for when Bucky can't handle anyone but the big dumb blond around him on a bad day.

He only calls Steve dumb affectionately, and only ever in his head. The guy is actually maybe one of the smartest people Bucky knows, although it's not like he knows many people beyond name and threat status. He's not sure if then-Bucky felt the same way about prettiness and frivolous things as he does now, but Bucky's kind of grateful that Steve has never brought it up. It wasn't long ago that he broke down from feeling like he didn't deserve to be _a_ person because he wasn't _that_ person, so he's just relieved that he doesn't have another standard to measure himself against and be found wanting.

He shouldn't think about judging himself worthy. He shouldn't think about meeting standards. He should think about reaching the next minute and being proud that he did. That's what his stupid fucking therapist says he should focus on when he feels disconnected like this. Bucky braces his hands against the sink, metal fingers clicking against porcelain with the sound he can _never_ be gentle enough to prevent, and drops his chin to his chest. He feels the soft fabric of his sweater and closes his eyes.

Breathe. Breathe again. Smile, force it.

Time to go and be a person.

Steve can always tell when he's forcing it, and Bucky thinks it must be a shade of old-him that he even tries to fool the guy. He blows out a long, slow breath and looks himself in the eye in the mirror (dark circles, pallid cheeks, razor burn, _fuckin' terrible Steve your D— your Ma never taught you to shave with the grain_?) before he pulls the spiralling pieces of himself together and cautiously exits the steamy bathroom.

The cabin ('cabin, more like a fuckin' hovel') is mostly open-plan, so he's almost visible from downstairs as soon as he exits the bathroom. The upper floor only takes up half the space of the ground floor, with the bathroom and bedroom beside each other and the bedroom open to the rest of the house. The wooden, rickety stairs lead directly into the bedroom, up from the living room that takes up most of the ground floor with the kitchen open-plan to it under the bedroom. It's small, all decorated in a 'rustic', country-hipster style that Bucky suspects Steve secretly enjoys (antlers on the fucking wall, seriously?), but Bucky will admit it's a welcome break from the sleek modernity of the Tower.

It's nice to be somewhere he's not under constant camera surveillance, for once in his remembered life.

The smell of coffee on the cool air hits Bucky straight away, and he closes his eyes to breathe everything in for another moment before he leaves the safety of one of the only blind spots in the house. He cased them out as soon as they arrived here, politely pretended he didn't see Steve doing exactly the same thing, and informally claimed the bathroom/bathroom doorway as his safe space. Steve prefers the back corner of the kitchen himself, so it works out just fine. Especially because Steve in the kitchen means copious amounts of coffee and carbohydrates, everything a super-soldier needs to pretend to be human.

Jager is sitting on the top step, staring at Bucky with grey eyes that sit wide and stark against all his black fur. The cat blinks and opens its mouth to meow loudly when Bucky makes eye contact and doesn't immediately pet him. It had been a fucking nightmare to bring the cat up here with them, given that Jager is terrified of cars (they discovered only _after_ the road trip started and he began yowling, which would last the _entire_ journey), but Bucky's glad they did as he leans down to pet him and the meowing trails off into loud purring. He's been having a rough time the last few days because of the weather, the cold meaning he's edgy and more easily triggered than usual, and it's easier to be around the cat than people at times like that.

When Bucky was new to the whole person thing, he'd received a lot of gifts. Some of them were practical (hair elastics), some of them were helpful (cupboard handles adapted to withstand his metal hand, thanks Stark), and some of them weren't gifts at all (food is a right, not a reward, it had taken him a while to understand that one). Jager was the first thing that wasn't given to Bucky, but that he'd claimed for himself. Steve still doesn't know exactly what happened, all he knows is that he woke up early one morning to find Bucky sitting on the kitchen floor, completely soaked through from the storm outside as a tiny ball of black fur chewed determinedly on his metal fingers.

It's the first time Steve saw a smile on the ghost of his best friend's face, so not keeping the cat was never an option no matter where it came from. Steve never found out if Bucky named it for the translation (it's not exactly much of a hunter) or the liquor, but either way it reminds him of old-Bucky enough that he thinks it's a perfect name for the stupid thing.

"Hey buddy, you need something?" Bucky addresses Jager softly, twitching a weak smile when the beast makes eye contact again, meows plaintively, and runs down the stairs in front of him. Typical. "Oh, okay. You couldn't pester Steve for food?"

Steve is by the coffee machine when Bucky follows the cat into the kitchen, padding silently over the wooden floor in his 'festive' (red and green glitter and it's only November, thanks Pepper) slipper socks. It's no surprise to find him there, dicking around with the different roast blends he'd picked up at the farmer's market ("Some white guy with dreadlocks tried to sell me hemp jam, Steve. What the fuck is this place?") but still apparently has to perfect on his own. Hardly anything is good enough for him ready-made, and Bucky's fairly sure he doesn't remember Steve cooking like this before.

Food is weird in the future, according to Steve, but Bucky can't really sympathise because he doesn't remember what food 'should' taste like. He supports the as-close-to-natural-as-possible thing Steve says makes things taste familiar, but Bucky usually can't taste anything but cardboard unless he douses his food liberally in hot sauce or sugar or _something_ that actually registers with his fried taste buds. It's getting better slowly, as he's introduced to more food and develops the tools to notice the subtleties in it, but he still considered naming the cat Tabasco for a reason.

"There's hair in my coffee." Steve is actually _pouting_ at his mug, and Bucky can't help but smile to himself in spite of the lingering chill that won't leave his bones.

"Me or the cat?" They've had literal arguments about which sheds worse, playful but sometimes with statistical data (courtesy of JARVIS) to back up their arguments. Jager buts gently at Steve's leg and he looks over his shoulder at Bucky with the smallest upward curve of his lips, cautious as always when he knows Bucky's been having a bad day.

"Cat hair. He wants hugs, I tried to pick him up but I'm Wrong Dad today."

"Ah, Wrong Dad syndrome. I hear they have a vaccine for that in the future." Quick enough so the cat doesn't take off on instinct, Bucky reaches down and scoops him into his arms. Jager starts purring immediately, a tiny lawnmower that tucks its head under Bucky's chin and curls claws into his sweater to make sure he's anchored tight once he's cradled securely. It's cute during the daytime, a fucking nightmare when Bucky's actually sleeping and the cat decides it's cuddle time.  

"Nah, I'm pretty sure it was that or polio. Pretty sure they picked the right one, too." Steve reaches over and pets the cat's head briefly, making sure he doesn't touch Bucky when he's not sure what kind of mood he's emerged from shower-memory-time in. "Want some coffee?"

"Yeah." Bucky leans over enough to rest his forehead on Steve's shoulder for a moment, and the touch makes him visibly relax. As much as he tries not to show it for fear of making him feel guilty, Steve's not okay when Bucky's not okay. It's important that he lets him know there's nothing bad looming on the horizon before Steve gets worked up all on his own. "Can I light the fire?"

"Sure. It's freezing today." Steve turns back to his overly-complex coffee preparation now he's reassured that Bucky isn't about to go into a bad flashback or check out on him. The Tower might feel oppressive at times, but it's definitely easier to handle his 'episodes' there than in the middle of nowhere in a cabin that doesn't have reinforced walls. "Started snowing while you were in the shower."

"No fuckin' way." Jager lands on the floor with an annoyed trill as Bucky drops him in his haste to get to the window. The wide-eyed wonder on his face when he gets a look at the thick, steadily-settling snow makes Steve smile harder, because despite all the shit they go through it's kind of awesome to be able to watch Bucky discover the world again. "That's snow? Shit. No wonder it's so fuckin' cold."

"Y'know, it's your fault the team gives me shit for telling them to stop swearing." Steve moves over behind Bucky and slowly lays his hands on his waist, hooking his chin over Bucky's shoulder when that movement doesn't cause a negative reaction. Physical affection between them is like a game of chess, sometimes, or a roll of the dice. "Stark thinks I'm a fossil, but they never had to deal with you cursing a blue streak while the cameras were on."

"And they never put our audio on the newsreels because of it. You're welcome, Rogers." Despite his general edginess today, Bucky leans back against Steve's chest and lets the warmth slowly seep through his sweatshirt and calm him down. Sometimes Bucky wants to be cuddly and can't, sometimes he doesn't particularly want to cuddle but seeks out the contact to prove he can take it, and on rare days like today he both wants to and can cuddle the absolute fuck out of Steve.

"Oh? What about when –"

"Make me coffee, don't prove me wrong." Bucky grumbles and pouts dramatically when Steve lets him go in order to do so. "I didn't say _move_."

"Okay, you're gonna have to make a value judgement between hugs now or coffee _and_ hugs in a few minutes." Steve isn't complaining, it's still rare enough that Bucky's cuddly (especially after they've already had a nightmare and a memory-wander today) that he'll take full advantage of it any way he can. He chances a dry press of his lips to Bucky's shoulder, barely felt through all his layers of clothing. "Go make the fire, I'll bring you coffee in a few."

"With whipped cream."

"With whipped cream." Steve repeats, dutiful as always in their call and response.

"And sprinkles."

"Why do I bother making you anything but hot chocolate?" Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky finally allows him to let go of his waist and move back to his coffee prep (and he's using a French press now, not even the machine. Bucky is so done with this 'vacation'). "Make the fire, caveman. I'm cold as fuck."

"Language, Cap." Bucky mock-scolds, smirking on his way out of the room at Steve's glare because he looks so fucking _done_ with the joke. It got old a month ago, Bucky will admit, but that doesn't mean he's not going to keep prodding at the bruise until Steve loses his shit completely and bans the phrase altogether.

Jager runs in front of Bucky without even a warning trill, almost tripping him over in his slippery socks on the hard floor, and Bucky mutters at the cat to _learn to fucking honk_ under his breath, probably in Russian because he's not thinking too hard. He's not concentrating on the present as he goes through the now-routine motions of squatting in front of the fireplace, taking kindling and wood from their respective stacks and building the fire before he fishes on the mantelpiece for matches. He's busy thinking about Steve, as usual.

Their back-and-forth slowly returning to normal is a relief, something that really feels familiar that allows Bucky to centre himself on something safe. Before he'd even remembered Steve's last name, he'd remembered to tell the guy he was a fucking jerk for being gentle with Bucky in a way he just _shouldn't_. Their dynamic had been fucked up for a while after… what happened, and Bucky's just hoping that the slow return of physical contact is a step in the right direction. It's not like they're fucking or anything, but he can at least hold Steve's hand or be held against his chest when the world is too wide and too loud and _too_.

He's not sure what they are, in terms of a relationship. They haven't even attempted anything like sex, nothing with such intimacy and overarching _implications_ , nothing so dangerous since the incident a few months after Bucky came in from the cold. What happened was so severe that they don't talk about it, that the treatment team refer to as an _incident_ without the tiniest shade of irony in their voices. Bucky's not sure if he wants a sexual relationship at all after what happened, but it's off the table for both of them right now so he's not going to…

 

_"God, Buck." Steve's chest is heaving like his lungs are still shitty as he tries to recover from getting his brains sucked out through his dick. "I've been waiting for that since the fucking thir…"_

_He trails off, because Bucky is still kneeling beside the bed and hasn't moved at all since he swallowed Steve's come without a second's hesitation. He sits up, unbuttoned shirt pooling around his elbows as the cold prickle of fear starts up at the back of his neck. He's suddenly acutely aware of how far away his shield is on the other side of the bedroom._

_"Bucky?" He breaks the thick silence cautiously. "You okay?"_

_"Awaiting instruction." Bucky's voice is flat, quiet and robotic and like he's not there at all as his hands rest limply on his thighs. It's only after a beat of silence that his eyebrows crease slightly and he tacks on a "Sir" like he's not sure if he's supposed to._

_"Oh god. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bucky, no." Steve is on the floor next to him in an instant, hands on Bucky's shoulders in spite of everything the therapists have told him about not initiating physical contact when things get bad. "Bucky? C'mon, come back."_

_"Sir?" There's an inflection in his voice, a confusion, and that means he's starting to come back to himself because the Asset would never have let a weakness like unsureness show._

_"Steve. I'm Steve, remember? Steve Rogers. And you're James Barnes, you're Bucky. C'mon Buck." Steve is squeezing his shoulders hard and he's not sure if he's shaking Bucky on purpose or his hands are just trembling and too strong not to move him involuntarily. "Bucky please, please."_

_"St… Steve?" Bucky blinks slowly and somehow he's there again, there's something behind his eyes instead of that blankness that scares Steve to death. "How…"_

_He looks down at them both and whatever he was going to say dies in his raw throat. Steve is still half naked, his flaccid dick hanging out of his jeans where he didn't think of covering himself up before dealing with Bucky. There's a sour taste in Bucky's mouth, Steve can see him run his tongue over his teeth and figure it out._

_Everything dawns on him at once. Now Steve knows all the things HYDRA kept out of the files, the things Bucky worked so hard to never, ever let bubble up to the surface for long enough to be seen. Steve knows._

_Silently, so uncannily silently, Bucky bursts into tears._

 

"…Buck."

It blinks once. Twice. Then it is a _he_ and Bucky is back in the room.

His face is hot. He looks over his shoulder to see Steve standing next to the obnoxiously-chequered couch with a mug in each hand, one laden with whipped cream and the rainbow sprinkles Bucky had insisted they bring from home. There's a shadow hanging over Steve's expression, so Bucky makes sure to smile extra wide when he makes eye contact.

"What?" He does his best to sound nonchalant, like there's an innocuous reason he didn't hear whatever the hell Steve just said.

"Your hand, Buck." Steve is still looking at him with that hesitant expression, the face he makes when Bucky can tell he's calculating how far away his shield is and how fast he can get to it if Bucky's slipping into Asset-mode. Bucky twists back around and realises his metal hand is still on the last log he'd put into the fire. Which is, of course, now on fire.

"Shit." It's not like he feels it, but animal instinct makes Bucky yank his hand out of the flames as if he can. The metal is nowhere near its melting point, barely tinged orange-ish at the very tips of his fingers, but he can tell Steve is concerned and offers a cheap one-liner as he forces a less-convincing smile. "At least it'll keep my coffee hot."

"You're a genius." Steve deadpans, walking over to hand him the coffee and pretend he's not still worried about Bucky _not realising his hand was on fire_. "You should get in touch with Starbucks, make some money."

"Capitalist." Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve's expression returns to something closer to what it should be. They're 'safe' and nobody is bleeding out, they're both here in the present (the future, whatever), so he shouldn't look like he's seen a ghost.

"Nat isn't here for you to get all 'Glory of the Motherland' on me, asshole. You're lucky I slept through McCarthy." Steve holds out his free hand and Bucky takes it after a moment's pause, flesh against flesh as he pulls himself to his feet. Warm flesh, alive. Present. "C'mon, they're showing The Grinch in ten minutes."

"The Grinch?" Bucky lets himself be herded to the couch, where Steve sits down and waits for Bucky to situate himself without pushing him to take any specific place. Force-cuddles aren't cuddles, according to Steve, and although Bucky's not sure his concept of 'force' passes the Steve-acceptability-test he'll go with the principle.

"He's a green guy that steals Christmas. It's funny, I think."

He ends up curled on his side, head in Steve's lap and cheek smushed against one thick thigh. Jager hops off the windowsill, where he's been carefully guarding the cabin against any threatening snow, and pads over to crouch into a loaf at Bucky's side. Bucky scritches behind the cat's ears with his flesh fingers and it starts purring lazily in approval, flopping down to curl into his body heat further.

"Sorry it's kinda a shitty day." Steve rests a hand lightly on Bucky's hair, tucking a stray strand behind his ear affectionately. After a moment of consideration, Bucky shakes his head and turns just enough to press a half-kiss to the fabric of Steve's jeans.

Bucky is on his feet today. He's breathing and he got out of bed and he feels more like a person than someone wearing a person suit, so it's a not-bad day. He's not even carrying a weapon, so it must be a good day, logically. A day that would be vastly improved by access to wi-fi and not freezing his ass off in the middle of _fucking nowhere Steve_ , but a not-bad day nonetheless.

"It's not so bad. I got my best guys." He mumbles, because he's got a warm cat on one side and a warm Steve on the other, and even though they're cold and edgy and a little unsure of each other in their newness, they're here.

Bucky and Steve are both different now, but they're still them and they're still together. That's what matters.

Predictably, Bucky falls asleep before the movie even starts, curled up around Jager where the cat is also dozing with its nose pressed against Bucky's metal bicep. Steve doesn't move them, watches Bucky more than the movie as snow continues to drift down outside and block out the world to blank silence. He makes a valiant effort, but by the first commercial break his head is tipped back against the couch and he's snoring too, warm and safe in the knowledge that everything he loves is close enough to touch.

 

_The Asset has been staring at the white powder around its feet for ten minutes. It's ice, it understands that, but it doesn't understand how something solid can look so soft._

_"That's snow." The newest member of the STRIKE team, the one who tends to treat the Asset with the consideration traditionally extended to a small child, as far as it understands, points at the powder. He's supposed to be watching the perimeter, not the Asset, but it doesn't feel irked. "You ever seen it before?"_

_"Snow." The Asset tries out the word, tastes it on its tongue. It makes it think –_

_—gonna freeze your fuckin' nuts off Steve Jesus Christ your socks are wet for fuck's sake I don't care how cute you're acting you fuckin' punk get the hell in here before I kick your ass from here to Kentucky gross don't put your icy little fingers down my damn shirt I'm gonna—_

_The Asset shakes its head, because it's not sure and it's not allowed to remember but it wants to hold onto something in these flashes, the shadows it can half-see when it closes its eyes. Snow._

_How can something so cold make it feel so warm?_

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I finally wrote something canon-verse. This universe is going to be expanded in a series of one-shots, so let me know what you think!


End file.
